The dead boy ghosted up in front of Sarn breaking the tight ring of his thoughts. He felt the pull of those glassy eyes—they wanted something. Casting his eyes elsewhere, Sarn prevented the gaze-lock from taking hold.
“Leave me alone. I don’t believe in ghosts.”
The specter ignored Sarn. Its dead eyes stared at him with a desperation that tore his heart.
Sarn pushed off the stalagmite and swam onward. His eyes burned as his magic tried to reignite its inner fire and failed. Something dark hurtled through the water startling him. Another followed it. The third one struck his back, but his magic deformed its point before it penetrated. Still, its impact jarred him and sent pain radiating across his shoulder.
Sarn broke the surface and stared at a quaking stalactite. Its tip cracked off and fell, helped by the flickering ghost boy whose translucent hands pried at another stalactite. Sarn dove aside as a fourth projectile splashed down too close for comfort.
"Are you trying to kill me?"
Sarn met the startled eyes of the ghost, and it shook his head. Pointing, the boy indicated something in the water. For one heart-stopping moment, a face floated on the surface, then a rock disrupted it. Sarn rubbed his eyes. That face—oh Fate—he couldn’t have seen. No, Hadrovel was gone. That psycho’s shade was not haunting him. But you didn’t see his dead body.
Sarn let his hands drop so he could tread water. The river was quite deep here and swift, but other than shadows, nothing shared it with him, now. He had hallucinated the hated visage of the Orphan Master. Still, the ghost boy gestured with increasing agitation at the spot and dropped more rocks on it.
Sarn dodged the projectiles, taking one more hit to his shoulder before he gave up. He’d get no answers from a mute ghost. Diving under, he swam as fast as he could. Sanity called, and he was keen to answer it.
Water washed over his face and drowned the magic every time he submerged. And if his magic hated the water, so much the better. Sarn smiled as he felt it retreat deep into his body again.
Twenty minutes later Sarn surfaced and hauled himself onto the shore. No ghost children occupied it. Flinging himself against a boulder, he relished being alone at last. Darkness pressed in on him. Without the glow of his eyes, there was only the feeble light of tiny lumir stones studding the ceiling thirty-feet overhead. But this darkness was natural unlike the one he’d found at the murder sites.
Footsteps echoed, jolting Sarn from his respite. He scanned the shore, but the too loud beating of his heart dominated his diminished hearing. Were they coming from over there? Did those shadows hide a tunnel?
Triggering his head map, he waited, but it fizzled out in a shower of emerald sparks instead of spawning. Something interfered with it. His gaze fell on the underground river. Could it deprive him of his head map?
The river’s chatter threw more echoes around the cavern further confusing his ears. Sarn gripped the rock ready to throw himself back into the river. His eyes burned, and their glow burst forth in an explosion of pain and double vision. Clamping down on the urge to howl in agony, Sarn reeled for a moment, glad of his rock perch. It provided support and rough patches to grip, as his sight blurred, then steadied out. The double vision and the pain faded as he blinked. His eyes washed everything in green light including a gnarled toe protruding from a hole in a boot.
“Easy,” said the newcomer, “It’s just Green Eyes.”
Sarn risked a glance at the man standing at his elbow. Grime combined with the emerald glow of his eyes made it impossible to tell what color the man’s garments were. As far as he knew, the gangs left this area alone since there was nothing of value here. Considering the number of people he’d run into so far, the situation might have changed.
The gap-toothed fellow waited for a response of some kind.
“How do you know me?”
“Zaduke.”
Oh right, he owed Zaduke a favor. Anger flared up, but Sarn squelched it, and the memory of why he owed a jumped-up thug a favor. He had a friend with a drug problem, and Zaduke was a dealer.
“What are you doing down this way? Rade and his men have claimed these tunnels.”
Sarn frowned at the unfamiliar name. Usually, he avoided gangs. If only they would offer him the same courtesy. A sense of urgency pushed Sarn to his feet, and in the river’s black surface, he met the ghost's dead stare. Before the thing could throw any more rocks at his head, he ran. Maybe he could outrun the ghost.
One of Zaduke’s men yelled something, and its echoes chased Sarn. But they were unintelligible when they caught up with him. So Sarn ignored them as he rushed down a staircase cut into a two-hundred-foot vertical drop. The river rushed by in a thunderous curtain on the opposite side of the ladder pretending to be a stair. Into the bowels of the mountain, Sarn plunged with his eyes lighting the way. He slipped a few times on wets stone until caution slowed his progress.
At the stair’s bottom, he froze and closed his eyes to conceal their glow. Using the mist thrown off by the falls as cover, he let his senses stretch out in search of danger. Symbols immediately populated his field of view. They had marked every person within a mile radius before he shut it off. No one was nearby or lying in wait, but of course, he’d ended up on the wrong side of the river. Thank Fate his sixth sense operated again because avoiding witnesses was impossible without it. And enough people had already seen him tonight.
Vaulting from boulder to boulder, he crossed the white-capped river. On the far shore, he checked his head map before selecting one of the three tunnels confronting him. He broke into a run as he took the left turning and hit the maze comprising the Lower Quarters. Squalor, even one with such a genteel moniker, was still rankest poverty.
The stink of urine, rotting food, and unwashed bodies intensified as he fled the river. Toward the caves where the indentured dwelt, he headed half choking on its damp, fetid air. What a change from the clean woodsy scent of the forest and his lungs protested every breath. His footfalls echoed despite his attempts to muffle them.
His son had to be okay. As the thought drummed in his head, it grew louder every time he caught sight of the ghost child dogging his heels.
Ahead the way forked again, and he skidded to a halt as a voice whispered, eam’meye erator. He still had no idea what it meant or why he heard a replay now. Sarn shook his head as the voice faded. What the hell was going on?
A coughing fit doubled him up as smoke belched from a nearby grate. Each cough drove the unfamiliar phrase from his thoughts as he staggered away. He had to leave this tunnel and find another way. Pulling energy from somewhere, he flushed out the fatigue burning his legs. He needed a breath of fresh air, but the Lower Quarters had none to offer him.
Rounding a bend, he skidded to a halt by a shield-shaped rock formation. The ghost boy floated, arms outstretched, head shaking in denial. Behind the ghost lay the entrance to a gallery. Sarn checked his head map and frowned at a sea of skulls and crossbones littering its contours. After sifting through the addicts’ symbology, he relaxed when his friend’s icon was absent. Maybe Shade had embraced sobriety as promised.
For a moment, the old curiosity seized Sarn. The ghost’s eyes implored him to select another route. And the sight of those pale green eyes reminded Sarn why he'd come down here—to check on his son. He turned aside.
Every sound echoed despite the moldering fabric strung up by generations of women. Instead of sound proofing, they had established hanging mold colonies festering with disease. He dodged their fringes, sacrificing speed for assurance none of the filth touched him.
Veins of a luminous stone, lumir, found only in Shayari, tried to light his way. They ran in parallel lines close to the thirty-foot ceiling. But they threw hardly any light into the eternal gloom choking this subterranean level. His eyes made up for the weak light nature had provided as he pushed on.
Entering a gallery full of collapsed columns, smashed stalagmites, and broken stalactites, he relaxed.
Their sharp protuberances gave the cavern teeth and served as a barrier to curiosity. Picking his way took time since the piles of debris stood taller than him. Sweat had drenched him by the time he reached the other end of the five-hundred-foot gauntlet.
Wiping the sweat from his brow before it could burn his eyes, he got his bearings. Three tunnels confronted him. Checking both on his head map, he searched for people icons. The first two had pedestrians, so he set off down the third tunnel.
Moving as soundless as possible, he listened for signs of pursuit. But the echoes reaching his ears held jocularity, instead of threats. Someone had found a flask of wine. Judging from the laughter, that someone was having a good time getting drunk.
Abandoned because it was a pain in the ass to find, this area of the Lower Quarters made a perfect hideout. The caves were difficult to reach, but the set-up offered more security than any other cave down here. So what if they provided cramped accommodations? Debris from the earthquake these caves had survived, restricted their access. Picking up the pace, he loped around bends, keeping his steps as light and quick as a feather.
After about a half hour of winding his way around, he arrived at his goal. Rough planks lashed together to form a door. And it had never looked so damned good. Sarn halted before it, checking for signs of forced entry as he sucked in deep breaths. His heart beat in his ears again limiting what he could hear from the outside world.
Pushing his sixth sense out beyond his skin, it dove into the room, and two stars bloomed on his head map. One marked his brother, and the brighter one pointed to his young son. His hand fell to the handle, and he fought the urge to turn it. His brother had locked it when he'd left for work. And it would stay locked until sunup, but his heart demanded that he check.
His sixth sense swept the tunnel where he stood. Dim lights flared one hundred paces down around a bend in the tunnel where the Foundlings lived. He counted two dozen tonight. Yesterday there had been nineteen. Who had come home—not his son’s mother. He swatted curiosity away as he leaned against his door and it yielded. Fear pushed him into the cave.
Chapter 4
The door swung in on quiet hinges. Orange light suffused the cave, originating from palm-sized wands of orange lumir. Sarn rushed to two sleeping forms and dropped to his knees by the straw-affair serving as a bed. Heart in his mouth, he scooped up a small form huddled under a blanket.
“Papa?” The boy struggled to return the hug despite the blanket cocoon pinioning his arms. “You’re back.”
Sarn nodded, and relief washed over him. His green-eyed little boy was alive. Relief swept him off an emotional cliff as he held his son against his racing heart. Sitting back on his haunches, he shoved down all the fear and worry. The boy who gave his life meaning was alive and well. Thank—but there was no one to thank for the miracle. Instead, he held his son in a tight embrace as he scanned the room seeking threats or signs of a break-in.
Something had triggered a need to rush back here and check on his son. Was it something his magic had sensed or the shock of finding a child murdered in the woods? Had he imagined an alien blackness swallowing the night sky?
Nearby a chest held some of their spare clothes while the rest lay discarded on the floor and the sight grounded him. Something darted under a table laden with stacks of books and papers thanks to his brother's schooling. Was it an insect? It was small enough to be one and the Lower Quarters was a haven for vermin of all kinds.
Miren waved recalling Sarn to the conversation he’d been ignoring.
“Hey pay attention. I’m asking you questions, and you’re zoning out.”
“Sorry, what did you want to know?”
“Did they let you off early?” Miren rubbed his eyes. His brother was fourteen and difficult.
Sarn shook his head as the realization hit him and almost bowled him over. What the hell had he done? He cursed himself, mentally of course.
“Why are you back so soon? They’ve never let you off so early. Are you okay?” Miren sat up and eyed his elder brother. “You’re all wet. What the hell happened out there?”
“Wet,” Ran complained, and his little face screwed up with distaste. The boy picked at his father’s saturated tunic.
“Sorry—I had to make sure you were okay.”
“We’re okay. I wouldn’t let anything happen. I thought you trusted me.”
“I do. I—” Sarn broke off before he could get himself into more trouble. They were his anchor. Without their trust, he'd lose what sanity he had left.
“You stay.” Ran shook his head, fingers convulsing on the handful of tunic he held. “You don’t go.”
Uh-oh, Ran’s chin had a stubborn set to it—not a good sign. His son had turned four in mid-March.
“I have to go back,” Sarn said, hating his predicament. If he stayed, he’d be in serious trouble.
“No. You left. You came back. Now you have to stay.”
"I wish I could." It pained Sarn to shake his head at his son’s request, but he was Indentured. His time belonged to the Ranger he’d ditched in the forest. Sarn felt the urge to bang his head into a wall at his stupidity. But he refrained for the sake of his son who was shooting him determined looks.
“He has to go back. He’ll be in trouble if he doesn’t go.” Worry creased Miren’s face which bore only a faint resemblance to Sarn’s. After all, they were only half-brothers and so far, they had only the non-magical half in common. The lucky teen glared at Sarn with brown eyes, and their dullness reassured Sarn. He could live with his freakishness if his brother stayed uncorrupted by magic.
“If you go back will you be in trouble?”
“I don’t know. I’ve never gone AWOL before.” No one had, but Sarn kept that tidbit to himself. He ran a hand over his face, and his fingers brushed the scar running down the left side of it. A parting gift from Hadrovel, the scar reminded him trouble stalked his every step. And when it left him alone, he went looking for it. The Rangers were right about him; he was an idiot.
“You have to go back right now before you’re missed. If you aren't gone too long, maybe you won’t be in trouble.” Miren’s dull eyes urged Sarn to get up and go.
“No,” Ran interjected, clinging to him, wanting nothing more than his company.
Even his magic lay quiescent in his veins neither arguing for or against staying. Maybe it too was of two minds about both options. But his heart pounded out its own demand, and his thoughts drifted back to the cold darkness obscuring the murdered child haunting him. It was like the dark damp of the Lower Quarters, and the similarity bothered him. Was that wrongness already here?
“No,” Ran shook his head and his son’s vivid green eyes reminded Sarn of the dead boy’s faded ones.
For the ghost boy, he had to go back. There might be a clue to unravel this—and what would he do then? Movement caught his eye and Sarn scanned the room for its source. The hindquarters of a cockroach vanished into a pile of dirty clothes. He felt its compound stare, and its malevolence prickled his skin. His cave no longer felt like a refuge but a crypt.
Ran shivered in his arms. Whether he stayed or returned to work, he first had to safeguard his son, but how?
Miren saw his brother wavering and his scowl deepened. He had to make Sarn see sense, and he knew what to say. Ran opened his mouth to add more incentive to stay, but he never got a word out. Miren reached out to remove his nephew from the equation. But the canny boy dodged him while still holding tight to his father.
Ran shot his uncle a determined look. The boy recognized the game, and his keen eyes accepted the challenge. Those piercing emerald orbs let Miren know his nephew intended to win. They both played for keeps.
As if he wanted his brother to go back out there, but the green-eyed fool had indentured himself. Miren glared at the mark of the Indentured. The hated patch glared back from under Sarn’s cloak. An “I” slashed through a howling wolf in a gold circle and below it, squatted the name of
his brother’s master—the goddamned lord of the mountain himself.
Where had all this anger come from? Sarn indentured himself for you so you could attend school. And what was this buzzing? Miren swiped at his ear dislodging an insect. He swatted it, but the damned thing darted into a pile of clothes.
Sarn had to go back. There were consequences to going AWOL, and they threatened Miren’s plans. Shortening Sarn’s term of indenture was his goal. So his brother had to go back right now. Miren opened his mouth to renew the argument but closed it when he caught sight of his frowning nephew.
Ran gave his uncle a look declaring a state of war existed between them. When had it not? Miren quashed the bitter laughter bubbling up but not the jealousy gnawing at his heart.
True the tyke had an unfair advantage, but the kid would lose this battle. Miren smiled at his nephew. It was time to knock some much-needed sense into his magic-addled brother. Since Sarn wasn’t the brightest lumir crystal in the box, he didn’t notice the rivalry between his son and brother. And Miren was glad he didn’t.
“You have to go back,” Miren said, readying his winning argument.
Sarn gave his brother a slow nod. Miren had the right of things as usual. His indentured status conferred no rights. He had to follow orders until they dismissed him for the night. He refused to risk his son’s life. What could he do to protect the boy when he returned to work? Sarn cast about for an answer. He met the button eyes of his son’s stuffed bear, and some of his distress ebbed away. There was something about Ran’s toy, but his mind failed to dredge it up.
“No. Papa stays here, and we have ad-ven-tures.” Ran glared at his uncle making it clear by ‘we’ he’d meant himself and his father. No uncles allowed.
“I'll take you on an outing later when I come back,” Sarn assured him.
Curse Breaker: Books 1-4 (Preview) Page 4
